


Happily Ever After

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Dragon Age Origins Verse [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anniversary, Dorks in Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Love, Pregnancy, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 12:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12704628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: Alistair Theirin and Anaphorah Cousland celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary.





	Happily Ever After

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/138010791@N02/38982627285/in/album-72157662981371817/)

Peace.

At last, after hours upon hours meeting with nobles, cajoling with diplomats, and reviewing treaties, Anaphorah Cousland— _Queen_ Anaphorah _Theirin_ —collapsed on her throne.

Maker’s breath, a moment’s respite. A reprieve. _Rest_. May she lay her weary head in her hand and doze but for a moment, a chance to catch her breath.

“Your Grace?”

 _No rest for the wicked_.

Her eyes snapped open to find a serving man at the foot of the stairs, bowing low and gaze averted. “Your Grace, your pr-presence… has been r-requested.”

From her seat, Anaphorah stood, a slow straightening of her legs as she stared down the young man. “By whom?”

“Who?” he repeated. “Th-the ah—beg your pardon, Your Grace—the King.”

“For?”

The lad’s hands twisted, fingers tangling as he stared at them. “Dinner, Your Grace. In the kitchens.”

Kitchens? She nodded as she descended the steps. “Is that all, my dear?”

The messenger raised his eyes, chancing a glance at his queen. “Yes, Your Grace.”

With a finger and thumb beneath his chin, Anaphorah raised his head and smiled. “What is your name?”

“Connor, if it pleases you, Your Grace.”

She rested a light hand on his shoulder. “In my court, Connor, you look me in the eye. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good,” she commented. “Though I am your queen, I am not your jailor. A people should not fear looking upon their queen. She is a symbol of leadership, of trust, honesty, and justice.”

Tension seeped from his shoulders, muscles relaxing beneath her touch. “Thank you, Your Grace. That is… refreshing.”

“You are most welcome. I am sure you have other duties to attend,” she stated.

Nervous fingers twisted again, torqued and twined. “No, m’lady. I am to escort you to the kitchens.”

Anaphorah laughed her barking laugh, doubled over with a stitch in her ribs. “Oh, Maker’s breath, I beg your pardon, Connor,” she gasped. “I know my way to the kitchens.”

Mouth agape, Connor stared. “You do?”

“How else would I sneak tiny cheese cakes for the King?” she laughed as she gestured ahead and lead the messenger to the far end of the hall. “I’m surprised you’ve not heard that rumor yet. Although, best it stay a rumor, now you know the truth. Can I trust you with such a silly secret?”

“Absolutely, Your Grace,” Connor replied, fingers unraveling. “It is a good rumor.”

Beside the young man, Anaphorah walked her slow stroll, slippered feet and long dress swishing over the carpet. “Why do you say that, my dear?”

“May I be blunt, Your Grace?”

Anaphorah nodded as they reached the door, her hand pausing on the handle. “It makes him seem more human. Both of you, really. You’re like one of us.”

She embraced him in a hug, catching him flatfooted, and he hesitated in returning the gesture. “Thank you for your honesty, Connor,” she said as she released him. “We are no different than you. Lucky, yes, but we have paid our dues.”

When Connor did not comment, Anaphora spoke in his stead. “That’s enough talk for now. Do not hesitate to speak with me in the future. I am here to serve.”

With a deep bow, Connor agreed and slipped across the hall to the far door. Anaphorah waited, watching the lad go before turning into the door for the kitchens.

* * *

At the center butcher block, Alistair stood, a careful eye scrutinizing the spread. Two dinner settings sat across from one another, empty but for water in small glasses. He paced, recalling his steps, hoping he forgot nothing.

Perfect. It had to be. Rare, a Warden living beyond his thirties, and rarer still for two to see their twentieth year of marriage. It had occurred to him to hold a grand celebration, but in the end, Alistair had preferred a more intimate setting, private, for their eyes only.

The rasp of metal on metal snatched his attention, head whipping to the door. Through the heavy stone archway slipped his wife, regal dress and slippers traded for tunic, leggings, and soft boots. As charming as ever, she flashed her dazzling smile, toothy grin revealed by wide lips.

“What’s all this?”

Maker’s breath, he thought. She had forgotten.

Alistair rounded the counter and embraced his wife, then lead her to her seat with a guiding hand at the small of her back. “Dinner, my dear.”

“I see that,” she stated as she sat. “But…”

Eyes the color of a turbulent ocean widened as she stared, and Alistair’s own smile spread in the wake of her understanding. A groan rumbled in her chest as her head fell into her hands, elbows propped on the counter.

“You cooked, didn’t you?”

He nodded as he took to the roasting pot by the fire. “Quail.”

“My favorite,” she said with a giggle. “It’s our anniversary, isn’t it?”

Alistair doubled over with laughter as he withdrew a tray revealing two whole roasted quails. “It is.”

She gasped, fingers covering her gaping lips. “Maferath’s _balls_ , has it been twenty years?!”

“I’ve been planning for weeks,” Alistair replied as he served their food, potatoes and leeks and squash accompanying the tiny birds. “I hope you—”

From her seat, Anaphorah flew into his embrace her arms wrapping around his neck. “Ali, it’s perfect, it’s all so perfect.”

At risk of dropping the gravy pot, Alistair set it on the counter, metal thudding on the wooden block. Lithe and long, Alistair’s massive arms encircled his wife with ease, hands smoothing her tunic and slipping to her backside.

She squawked in protest, barking laughter filling the tiny room. “You keep that up, we won’t get to enjoy this amazing dinner.”

Truer words had ne’er been spoken. Alistair set her on her feet, releasing her backside and kissing her forehead. “As always, you are right.”

She returned to her stool and hefted the bottle of wine as Alistair continued to prepare their food. And then, from a concealed pocket his wife brandished a small knife, breaking the wax seal and poured him a full glass of yellow gold wine. As discrete as she had withdrawn her blade, Anaphorah concealed it once more, returned to her sleeve.

“I’m glad.”

Anaphorah pouted, bottom lip sticking out and forehead knotting as she regarded him. “About?”

“In the two decades we’ve been together…” he started as he lit two tall candles, “you’ve not changed a bit.”

Maker, but he loved her adorable pout. “I've changed. I'm _queenly_. Regal even.”

True. “But queens don’t carry knives in their sleeves.”

“Oh?” A quirk of her lip brightened her smile. “And how many queens have you known, my king?”

Quick as ever. “None but you, Your Grace. Touché.”

As he sat across from his wife, Alistair marveled once more that two decades had past them by in the blink of an eye. And in that moment, Anaphorah voiced his thoughts. “Do you remember when we met.”

“I remember a haughty mage and a fresh warden recruit,” he chuckled. “Yes, it’s as if it happened only yesterday.”

Anaphorah laughed with him, grey-green eyes rolling at the memory. “Oh Maker, I knew I was in trouble right away.”

Alistair hesitated as he hefted his knife and fork, elbows flanking his plate. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy,” she admonished. “We were attracted to each other immediately. Right?”

 _Don’t fuck this up, Theirin._ “I… was very intimidated by you. By your wit, your grace, your beauty. Yes attracted. But I would have never guessed you were interested until you asked.”

Her charming smile spread, crinkling the corners of her eyes, and Alistair eased on his stool. “You were adorable. And funny. And so very tall, with your broad shoulders and big arms.”

He cringed as he cut into his bird. “I always felt too big, too clumsy when I was living in the Chantry. The sisters scolded me for taking up so much space, knocking things over.”

“That’s terrible,” she sighed through her food. “I loved your… stature.” Her subtle glance to his groin heated his cheeks.

“Stature,” he stated, clearing his throat. “Sure.”

Anaphorah giggled at that, turning back to her food. They ate in silence then, Alistair listening to the soft sounds of her pleasure as each new bite graced her tongue. And there, his mind wandered once more to marvel at the mystery of their continued existence. They both should have left for the deep roads years ago, but neither had heard the song yet, not a whisper in their minds. And yet the worry gnawed at the base of his skull, a constant worry that haunted his dreams where he woke to find himself alone in his bed. And when he searched for here, he would find her letter, saying her final goodbye and—

“I’m pregnant.”

“What?”

Anaphorah continued to eat as if she’d said nothing important. Through a mouthful of leeks, she repeated herself. “Pregnant.” With her fork, she pointed at her belly. “You know,” she continued, then swallowed. “A baby.”

Alistair gaped, jaw working to find the right words. “We're going to have a baby?”

She nodded, a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “I think I want to name her Natalie.”

When Alistair said nothing, Anaphorah looked to him, frowning. “Alistair? What’s—”

No memory of standing, of running around the table and wrapping his wife in a massive hug, existed. But there they embraced, Alistair lifting her from her stool and shouting his excitement. Too good to be true, he maintained his hold of her lest he awake from the dream, lest this miracle escape their grasp.

Whether minutes or mere seconds had passed, Alistair cared not in the slightest. But a burning question begged for an answer and so he asked.

“How long have you known?”

“A while,” she started. “Long enough to know it’s a girl.”

A gentle touch of his fingertips sought her belly. “A girl?”

Anaphorah smoothed his hand over her tummy, a subtle, firm bump that Alistair had missed. “Natalie.”

He grinned, then to her stomach he spoke. “Natalie,” he sighed. “Hello Natalie.” He placed a kiss atop her stomach. “Hello my baby girl.”

“Is that okay?”

Alistair regarded his wife with a curious brow. “Of course, it’s okay,” he laughed, tears spilling over his cheeks.

“No,” Anaphorah admonished with her own bout of tears. “Is Natalie okay?”

“Natalie,” he sighed once more, a soft caress of his wife’s belly.

“It’s perfect.”


End file.
